The twin moons were burning low tonight. Rath and Ruthe hung where they always hung, red as forge-iron against a starless sky, but something in their light felt wrong. Too thin, too stretched, like fabric pulled over a frame too large for it. I had lived in this tower for eleven years. I knew the way moonlight settled on the back of my hand, and tonight it was lying differently. The Ember Star at my throat pulsed once. A slow, deep contraction, like a second heartbeat deciding to make itself known. I pressed two fingers there, the old instinct. The gift had never spoken in words, not in eleven years of keeping it. It spoke in pressure, in warmth, in the occasional stubbornness of knowing before I did. Tonight it was certain about something I hadn’t caught up to yet. I turned back to my desk. The census of ward failures along the southern Ashfields was spread across the whole surface, annotated in three colors, waiting for me to find the pattern I suspected was there. My tea had go
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